Page 5 of The Prestley Ghost
“The same way I can talk without a body, I think. I concentrate on it, and I know how it should feel.” One buckled shoe, slightly heeled, tapped against the wall. “My name is Alex, by the way. Alexander Leonfeld, not that it’ll mean much these days. The family name’s likely gone; I was an only son, and my older sister had just married an earl and gone away up into Yorkshire, and it was just us, as far as siblings.”
Charles had to look at him, both for the casual admission of wealth—having a sister wed to an earl—and for the recurrent emotion, that thread of wistfulness again, a broken thread in the glittering embroidery. So alone; and that was not something he had considered, when reading his parents’ notes or finding the missing will of the stone-throwing ghost in Dean: the weight of loss, of being tied to a place or an item, watching as everyone familiar slowly passed away.
“Don’t worry,” Alex said, too lightly. “I’ve had some time to grow used to it.”
“Do you want me to try to…help? To give you peace?”
“Oh, go on.” Alex did the eloquent wave again, fingers fluttering through the air. “You seem so confident. Make an attempt.”
Charles did not feel as confident as he’d been trying to sound—generally he would’ve resolved whatever unfinished business existed, solved a puzzle, salted and burned an artifact, and he had none of those things to go on—but he’d made theclaim and he was being watched. He straightened his shoulders. “You like helping people. If that’s your tie to this earth…then you need to fulfil that.”
Alex said nothing, only put his head on one side and regarded Charles as if trying to sort out a puzzle on that side as well.
“You need to feel that you have helped someone,” Charles said. “For peace. And so…yes, you have.”
Alex laughed, not unkindly.
“No,” Charles said, “I mean that,” and he heard the words, he felt them, a drawing-in and coiling of his own power, the gift that let him see and hear and absolve and release. He’d never known exactly how to describe it. Like a tightening, he’d said once to John. Like the moment before a jump or leap or a gulp of air. Like the crackle and hum before lightning. None of those were the right words, but they were close: a gathering of possibility, of insight, and then a push and a sense of unlocking.
It’d worked before. It might now. “You did help me. I wasn’t planning to throw myself into the river like a sensation-novel heroine, but I was feeling…alone, and angry, and guilty, and then you were here. You made me smile. So, yes, you helped.”
The words had power—it was the right key, the right shape—but not enough. He said the last part again, because it was true, and honest; he put his heart into the words, because he had to, to make it convincing.
And itwastrue. Alex had distracted him and made him smile, and Charles had thought for a heartbeat about flirtation and teasing and the simple pleasure of quick sparkling conversation, instead of leaden guilt and ever-present haunting reminders.
He had felt better, with Alex there.
And the slender shape of the Prestley ghost, embroideredwaistcoat and all, faded and grew less defined, more blurry, like watercolors in rain; Alex might’ve been smiling, but then the smile dwindled to a whisper and was gone too, leaving only the stone wall and the lowering streaks of rainbow in the sky.
Charles stood very still. It could not have been that simple. He could not have done this so easily.
He could not have banished Alex—because that would mean he did not get to speak to Alex again, and of course this wasgoodfor Alex, it meant that Alex had moved on and found peace—but that peace lay in some far-off green country and not here, not here to smile at him and tease him about chivalry and heroic rescues—
He breathed, “Alex?”
No sound stirred aside from the wind; no embroidery-sparkle lit the air, other than the sunset.
Charles shut his eyes. Exhaled. He should be pleased. He should be—
He opened his eyes. Just in case.
Still nothing. As expected.
He felt the weight on his shoulders, felt the cold through his shirtsleeves. Home, then—down the path, in the fading light, where he’d apologize again to John, as he always had to, it seemed. The walk appeared to be a long one, more so than he recalled on the way here. He should probably make himself take a step. Or two. Or just one.
“It’s growing dark,” said Alex’s voice at his ear, “and those stepping-stones over the river will be tricky; would you like help?”
Charles tripped over astonishment and relief and his own feet, collided with the wall, clung to it. “You’re not gone.”
“I’d planned to let you think you’d been successful, if that’s what you wanted, but then you didn’t look happy, and I had some concerns about those rocks in the dark.” Alexmaterialized at his side, far too smug for someone so illusory. “Shall we?”
“You’rehere.”
“Yes?”
“You’re…coming home with me?”
“I’m offering to walk you home, yes.” Alex outright grinned at him. “Offering assistance.”
